Of Love and Loss
by Ness Frost
Summary: Various characters reflect on their losses and those of their loved ones. Rating for themes of death; expect waterworks.
1. Zuko: Thank You

**Disclaimer:** I do not own A:tLA or its characters. This is just an instance of me having fun.

* * *

His death was not tragic.

He'd gone peacefully, they said, in his sleep. All evidence was that he hadn't suffered much, if at all. He'd lived to a ripe old age, surrounded himself with friends, and raised a son he could be proud of. It was the way he'd have wanted to go—the way _anyone_ would have wanted to go.

That didn't change the fact that he was grieved by many, that his passing had left a hole in the lives of everyone who had known him. It didn't change the fact that the hardest thing Zuko had ever had to do in his life was explain to his daughter that Grandpa Iroh was gone, and that he wouldn't be coming back.

He'd held her for nearly an hour while she cried, shedding more than a few tears himself. When she'd finally calmed down, he'd handed her off to his wife, who'd taken her without a word but with a look of understanding.

After, he'd wandered the palace grounds, shrugging off all offers to accompany him; he needed to be alone. Eventually, without him consciously realizing where he was going, his feet had taken him straight to the turtleduck pond. There, he'd knelt in the shade of the tree where his mother had used to play with him, and set his gaze on two small carved stones.

These were a mere memorial. Iroh's body, as was his wish, had been burned in Ba Sing Se, the place where he'd lost his son. Zuko, however, had needed something here, in the capital: a small thing to remember him by, and mourn.

He stared at the stones for several minutes before he managed to find his voice, and in that space of time, he was no longer the Fire Lord, the all-powerful ruler of his country, but a confused and hurting exile once again.

Zuko took a deep breath. He turned to the older and more weathered of the two stones, and spoke.

"Well, Lu Ten," he began, his voice breaking, "it looks like you've won. But for what it's worth… thank you for letting me borrow your father. It meant… more than I can say."

A hot stream of liquid spilled from his good eye as he finished, cooling as it trickled down his cheek. During his time as Fire Lord, he'd made many speeches—some inspirational, some sad, all of them longer than this. None of them, however, had come straighter from his heart.

"Uncle…" He barely managed the single word before he choked up completely, and was forced to start over. There were so many things he wanted to say, but in the end, there was only one thing that he could.

"Thank you. For everything."

As he spoke, the strangest sensation came over him. A touch that was not a touch ghosted over his skin, as of a phantom hand gripping each of his shoulders—one young and strong, the other gentle and warm.

_We'll meet again._


	2. Suki: Full Moon

Sokka never wanted to do anything on the full moon—not even kiss.

That first time, Suki had thought… well, in all honesty, she hadn't been sure quite _what_ to think. That there was someone else, she'd deduced fairly quickly. That it was a painful memory for him was also obvious.

The Ember Island Players, of all people, had been the ones to enlighten her. At first, she'd dismissed it as yet more absurdity, another layer of ridiculousness in the already ridiculous play, and had turned to Sokka to make the appropriate jab. The look on his face, however, had informed her of her mistake.

As time passed and the war ended, their wartime fling had grown into something more lasting. Sokka grew increasingly at ease with kissing her and more, and she was glad that he had been able to move on, but Suki also knew that he had never forgotten her—the other girl whom she had never met.

Now, sitting alone outside, she stared up at the full moon and thought of a white-haired girl, of a white koi swimming in an endless circle for the rest of time.

She took a deep breath.

"I know that Sokka meant a lot to you," she started, "and it's easy to see that he loved you just as much." She took a deep breath. "He means a lot to me as well." She stood, still looking up at the moon, wondering what this girl had been like and if, under different circumstances, they could have been friends.

"I'm sorry that things couldn't have been different for you," she continued quietly. "But I promise you, I'll take good care of him."

She offered a slight bow in the direction of the moon before turning away and going back inside.


	3. Hakoda: Be Strong

_You have to be strong for your children._

His mother had said that to him just as soon as she'd learned what had happened, and even through his grief Hakoda knew that she had been right. He tried to be strong. He had to.

For the most part, he'd succeeded. He'd been strong enough to catch Sokka before he could shove past him into the tent and see what Katara had seen. He'd managed not to shed tears as he explained to his son what had happened, even as he'd held his daughter close in a comforting embrace.

He'd been strong enough to leave his children in Bato's care while he removed his wife's singed and blackened body from their tent, strong enough to cover what burns he could and clean the ashes from the floor, strong enough to reposition her limbs so it looked like she was sleeping peacefully. He'd been strong enough to speak and not let his voice break as her body slowly sank beneath the water, to keep his hands from trembling as he wrapped an arm around each of his children's shoulders.

He'd even been strong enough to remove the necklace from Kya's cold body before they gave her back to the water, the necklace his mother had given her to wear on their wedding day and which she hadn't removed since. He'd known that Katara would need something by which to remember her mother.

Later, after the tribe had finished their mourning rituals, he'd been strong enough to return to the tent that was no longer home, to pack up his and his children's meager belongings and move them from his tent to his mother's. He'd been strong enough to wipe the tears from Sokka's eyes, to hold Katara close until she finally broke out of the stupor she'd been in all day and let her grief out in a series of racking sobs. He'd been strong enough to tuck his children into bed, to soothe Sokka with reassurances until he finally drifted off to sleep, to sit by Katara's side and stroke her brow until her nightmares had passed and her whimpering gave way at last to peaceful sleep.

After all that had passed, however, he wasn't too strong to fall into his mother's arms and weep just as thoroughly as Katara had wept in his.


	4. Aang: A Few Days

It had only been a few days.

A few days ago, he had overheard the monks' plans to separate him from Gyatso. A few days ago, he had run away on Appa, been caught up in a storm, and ended up frozen far beneath the waves.

Then, Katara had freed him from the ice, and told him that those few days had actually been a hundred years.

She'd tried to warn him. She really had. She'd also tried to protect him. Even as he'd shown them the courtyard and attempted a game of airball with Sokka, however, he'd known.

A few days ago, the temple had been lively with monks and children and sky bison and lemurs. A few days ago, Gyatso had been here, the real Gyatso, not just a statue.

When he saw the skeleton, however, surrounded by hundreds of other skeletons in Fire Nation armor, he could no longer pretend that it had only been a few days.

A hundred years ago, Monk Gyatso had been alive.

A few days ago, so had the carefree child who was now no more.


	5. Sokka: True Mastery

_He left you everything._

Hours after the fact, the words were still echoing in his mind, rattling around his skull like so many loose marbles. Holding a hand to either side of his head, Sokka sank down onto the front steps of the mansion—_his_ mansion now—and continued trying to process what had happened, something he had been doing ever since he had received the message bearing the seal of the White Lotus.

On the one hand, he reasoned that of course it would have worked out this way. Piandao had never married, never had children. He had had no family with whom he was on speaking terms—Sokka's hands still clenched into fists when he thought of it. Fat's death had preceded his by more than ten years. The last student he had taught before Sokka was Zuko, and there wouldn't have been much point in leaving material wealth to someone who was currently the most powerful man in the country. He had taken no students since.

All in all, it had been the most logical decision—but for once, logic was the last thing on Sokka's mind.

_Why did you do it, Master? What am I supposed to do with all of this?_

Letting out a sigh, Sokka heaved himself to his feet. All he was doing was chasing himself in circles. As long as he was trying to sort things out in his own head, he might as well take a look around.

The vast house was far too quiet. Of course, it had always been quiet—the master had liked his calligraphy and his landscape painting, his morning meditation and his evening tea, and most of the noise there was had been made by Sokka himself. He quickly realized, however, that it wasn't just the silence that was pressing down on his ears—it was the _emptiness_. There had always been a presence here while his master was in residence. Now, that presence was gone.

As he finished his tour of the house, Sokka felt no more enlightened than he had been before. If anything, the heavy weight of despair had begun to settle on his shoulders. How could he ever hope to have the presence to fill a space like this?

Reaching into his shirt, he carefully unrolled the last message his master had left for him, written in Piandao's precise calligraphy.

_'Remember, Sokka. Anyone can learn to wield a weapon, but true mastery is in the joy of seeing your students surpass you, and go on to reach heights that you could only dream of.'_

His tour had ended at the cold, silent forge, and he lowered the scroll of parchment to stare into the ashes. He had toiled here once, sweated as he shoveled coal and worked the bellows through the night, all of it to make his very first sword. It had started out as nothing more than a meteorite that had happened to land close to him—but in that unrefined hunk of space rock, Sokka had seen something special, and he had lovingly worked it into a sword unlike any other.

Again, he read the message. Carefully, he rolled the parchment back up, but did not put it away.

He smiled.

* * *

"Hey, Suki?"

"Hm?"

"Remember how you've been saying we should move to a bigger place now that the kids are older?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"And remember what you said about it being to cold around here in winter?"

"Mm-hm." Her eyes gave off a mischievous twinkle, and Sokka knew that he was on the right track.

"And do you remember telling me to find something to do with myself before I take someone's fingers off with my boomerang?" It was all about the timing.

She placed her hands on her hips. "Sokka, where are you going with this?"

"Well, I think that I have just the place—as long as you don't mind the occasional stray coming through for a lesson."

Sokka could never be the man his master had been—but then again, his master had never expected him to.

_I promise I'll make you proud._


End file.
